Explore "Retrospection" by Annie Fellows Johnston on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
THE grandsire, in the chimney corner, takes / The almanac from its accustomed place, / And while the kettle swings upon the crane, / And firelight flickers on his wrinkled face, / Reviews the slow procession of the months; / And sees again upon the hills of green / The gypsy Springtime pitch her airy tent / Among the blossoms. Then the silver sheen / Of harvest moon shines down on rustling corn / Until the hazy air of Autumn thrills / With sound of woodman's ax and hunter's horn, / And darker shadows climb the russet hills.
But while he ponders on the open page, / The last sand in the hour-glass slips away.
The end seems near of his long pilgrimage, / And he would call the fleeting year to stay.
But passing on, she goes -- a sweet-faced nun -- / To take within the Convent of the Past / The veil of silence. Then the gates swing shut, / And Time, the grim old warden, bolts them fast.
No more can come again those halcyon days / The Year took with it to its dim-lit cell; / But often at the bars they stand and gaze, / When through the heart rings memory's matin-bell.